In the secret garden of memory, where echoes of silence ceaselessly blossom

In the secret garden of memory, where echoes of silence ceaselessly blossom, I chain my breath to the roots of the heart, now desolate, now unveiled. Moon flowers arise from the depths of the thirsty wound, dressed in petals of mist, Illuminating seraphically from my barren thought, an unspeakable beauty, finely born from prolonged absence. A miracle that, perhaps, your storm-carrying eyes would condemn to witness, Under the blanket of the sky, where hearts make pacts with the infinite, an unshakeable covenant. Deep-penetrating roots guard the earth, tenderly enveloping the eyelash that waits to try. Scraping to the core, you might see the illusion of life, the coming and the going, in that sacred awaited place. Your feet might remember the green fragrance of the forest, Shining unexpected, greening from the forgetting of their own refrain in the memory of the earth. Arms fall silent in a divine green, in a symphony of leaves that know no fear, Which forgot their cry when the eagles of autumn carved them, making from shards an art, an echo that will not cease. Veins announce their end in an unspoken hymn, far from any search, Now tranquil, they finish mute, beneath canopies of leaves and mosaics in the dry. It's possible, in your departure, you might hear that amphoric call, a refrain that brings the bridegroom to burning, A merry quatrain of the fog, a symphony of earth and flesh, which without you, the soul grieves suicidally.